


Who Are You?

by i_am_greg_lestrade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, almost having car sex, sudden attraction, unf?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_greg_lestrade/pseuds/i_am_greg_lestrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a raid of a local crack den, DI Greg Lestrade finds a very high Sherlock Holmes and takes him back to 221B. Meanwhile, Mycroft Holmes is surveilling the flat and sees them come in and immediately notices how this man is treating his brother like a human and taking care of him. He needs to meet this man and thank him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Are You?

CLICK!

The large monitor turned on, making a slight static buzzing. Mycroft tapped a few keys on his laptop’s keyboard and an image flickered on. It was a darkened view of the sitting room in 221B. Mycroft liked to keep an eye on his little brother, ever since Sherlock had been found in a gutter, track marks riddling his arms and strung out on a multitude of different drugs. It took him weeks to recover so now Mycroft wants to make sure it never happens again.

He saw no movements in the first camera’s view, which, for 9pm, was unusual for Sherlock. He was usually up until at least 3 in the morning, rambling or playing his violin. It was a wonder his landlady could stand it.

Mycroft took a sip from his crystal glass, the amber liquid sloshing gently at the sides. Tapping a few more keys, he brought up the view of Sherlock’s bedroom beside the one of the sitting room. It was darkened as well, but the bed was occupied. It seemed that Sherlock had gone to bed early. that struck Mycroft as strange. Sherlock may have just had a tiring day and just simply went to bed early, but Mycroft didn’t think so.

Suddenly, movement from the sitting room caught Mycroft’s attention. The door was seen opening and a hunched figure was half carrying, half dragging another form. Mycroft’s heart dropped when he realised who the semi-unconscious figure was. His eyes flicked back to the view of the bedroom and he mentally kicked himself for just now noticing that the pillows and sheets were just positioned under the duvet to look like a human body. What at first glance fooled him became a painfully obvious ruse.

Sherlock had known of Mycroft’s surveillance, tried (and succeeded in) fooling him, and had relapsed. Someone must have found him, knew him, and cared enough about the snarky young man to bring him home.

Turning his attention back to the sitting room, which was now much brighter, he got a better look at the man who had carried Sherlock home. Silver hair, somewhat muscular physique, and he wore a back duster. His back was to the camera.

Mycroft tapped out a command and the man’s voice filled his office.

"Not bloody *hff* again, you idiot. Dammit *hff* Sherlock."

Mycroft didn’t recognise the voice, but his stomach flipped slightly at it. Who was this man and how did he know Sherlock? Mycroft leaned forward and set his whiskey down in his desk. He opened his search database and awaited for a hint of a name or for the man to show his face. Mycroft would find out who this was, by any means. Meanwhile, the stranger’s nearly one-sided conversation went on.

"You woulda been arrested if I hadn’t been on that raid team tonight. Bloody lucky, you are, Sherlock."

Sherlock flopped onto the couch, face first. He muttered into the cushions.

The man leaned closer, cocking his head slightly towards Sherlock. “What’re ya sayin’?”

Sherlock turned his own head towards the leaning man. “M’ ever-lasting gratitude, L’strade,” came the heavily slurred reply.

Lestrade? Mycroft tapped the name into the search bay and hit return. 2,752 results in the UK alone. He narrowed it down to London. 16. Much better. He scanned them all and found the most likely subject.

Lestrade, Gregory M. 47 years of age, married with 2 children, one 14, one 8. Mycroft skimmed his information and stopped when he came to his occupation. Detective Inspector and the head of the homicide division at the New Scotland Yard. That was the explanation Mycroft needed. According to the word of his own mouth, this man- DI Gregory Lestrade- had found Sherlock in a crack house that was being raided and brought him home safely.

"I coulda lost my job," Lestrade was saying. "But… if I hadn’t gone tonight, you’d be in jail. Or worse." He was obviously stressed. He ran a hand through his short, grey hair, pausing to scratch the back of his head. "Thank God they needed me…" he mused, finally turning around.

Mycroft’s heart leapt into his throat. The man on the screen was breathtakingly handsome. His olive-tinted skin accented the brightness of his silver hair, which stuck up in places. The warmth in his gold-brown eyes made Mycroft’s stomach unsettle once more, making him curious. This man wasn’t his type. Too common, too unpredictable. Yet… he felt an appreciation for him. He was someone who cared about Sherlock and Mycroft found that oddly alluring. Someone who tolerated his younger brother’s antics was someone he wanted to meet.

So he would.

\---------

"Drink it, Sherlock," Lestrade commanded, shoving the honey-lemon tea in the high kid’s face.

Sherlock lifted his head long enough to glare at the cop in his flat. “Gimme alcohol, then I will drink it.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and set the tea down on the small, cluttered table behind him. He stayed crouched next to the lanky man. Sherlock had started to come down and was in a shivery sweat. Lestrade could tell he had been tweeking for days, almost constantly in a high. Sherlock could have killed himself… but maybe that’s what he wanted. He was constantly shunned because of how he was. He would read people and tell them about themselves, harshly. It was always the truth, too. Nearly always spot on.

"She’s cheating again," Sherlock mumbled.

"Who?" Lestrade rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, a fatherly gesture.

Sherlock opened his cold, mint green eyes. They were clear, despite his being high. “Your wife.”

Lestrade’s heart dropped to his stomach. He had had his suspicions but had even more faith in her…

Oh, what did Sherlock know. He was under the influence of whatever drugs he had pumped into his body this time. He would take anything that he said with a very small grain of salt.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs alerted Lestrade. He stood up and turned to the still open door. A taller man with auburn hair and a commanding air stepped into the flat, his icy blue eyes immediately locking with Lestrade’s.

"Come with me, Detective Inspector," the taller man commanded.

At the sound of his voice, Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he scrambled to stand, his arms wheeling about to keep his balance. “I knew you were watching, Mycroft,” the young man’s eyes were wild and he stumbled towards the man in the doorway. “I knew it. And here you are! Hehheh.”

Lestrade grabbed the rambling man by the shoulders and steered him back down to the couch. “Oi, Sherlock, calm down you’re gonna make yourself si-“

And at that moment, Sherlock’s face became pale and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He shoved Lestrade to the side as he sprinted to the back of his flat and was sick in the toilet.

"-sick," Lestrade sighed. He turned his attention back to the man with the umbrella, standing in the open doorway. "Now, who are you? Mike Roth?"

The man blinked and shook his head. “My name is Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock’s ol-“

"Older brother! Ah!" Lestrade interrupted, nodding his head. "Okay. Yeh. He’s mentioned you."

Mycroft cocked his eyebrow. “Has he? Hardly anything pleasant, I would assume.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Yeh, not really.” Suddenly, his eyes widened and he thrust out his hand, offering it to Mycroft. “Where are my manners! Greg Lestra-“

"-strade of the Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector, head of homicide, I know." A smug look crossed Mycroft’s face at the look of surprise he received. "I do my own research." He gripped Lestrade’s warm hand and pumped it once. Lestrade’s grip was firm and business-like, one Mycroft could respect. A man with a weak handshake was a not a man he would dare associate with.

Mycroft released Lestrade’s hand, slid it into his front trouser pocket, turned, and walked out of the door. “Come with me,” he repeated.

Lestrade glanced down the hallway where retching noises could still be heard and went to question whether to worry about Sherlock when Mycroft lifted his hand and waved his hand, gesturing him forward.

"He shall be fine. Most likely sickened, but he knows how to take care of himself."

Taking one final look down the hallway, Lestrade jogged out the door, shutting it behind him.

As they walk out of the blue door of 221B Baker St., Mycroft waved Lestrade to a waiting black car. It was a sleek Jaguar, built for speed and maneuverability, but made to have the comfort of a luxurious limousine. Lestrade whistled as he walked over to it.

"Bloody nice car ya got, mate," he observed. He wanted more so to look under the hood, to take it apart and learn what made it tick, but he didn’t let his obsession with mechanics show too much. He figured and figured correctly that Mycroft wasn’t the type to care much about his cars but rather if they got him from point A to point B in an efficient and timely manner.

"I suppose it is, yes," Mycroft supplied, opening the door. "Please, come in."

Lestrade paused, confused. “Why?” Not that he had any complaints about climbing into the back of a car with a extremely attractive man, but he just was curious as to the reason.

Mycroft held the urge to close his eyes and sigh, trying to be patient with the handsome, if not a tad slow, man in front of him. “I would like to share a conversation with you about my brother and your interest in his wellbeing.”

"So we’re gonna do it in the back of your car?" Lestrade flushed as soon as he said it, realising how it may have sounded. Thankfully, the man with the ice-like composure didn’t seem to notice.

"Yes," Mycroft stated simply, instantly realising the red that had crept over the DI’s face. He, himself, was well trained to hide any outward signs of embarrassment or, in this case, intrigue. His eyes scanned the length of Lestrade’s build covertly. The older man was so very attractive and the thought of intimate relations in the back of Mycroft’s very own car was alluring. But, they were barely past strangers. What was wrong with him? He had never had such lewd thoughts before, but, with the blushing silver-haired man in front of him, he had never felt such a pull.

Shrugging it off, Lestrade nodded and brushed past Mycroft to climb in, his chest coming in brief contact with the taller man’s. He felt his pulse quicken and the redness on his face deepen before ducking his head all the way into the comfortable car.

He hasn’t felt this reaction to another man since he was in uni. After he’d found his wife, she was the only one he needed. Then… she started sleeping around. He’d already suspected it when he’d caught her with a sergeant from the drugs unit, in her and Lestrade’s own bed. Lestrade had been so heartbroken and angry, he was sure that he would never take her back. But, he did. For Elizabeth, his first born daughter, then only 6 years of age. Then, he found out she was pregnant again and they were a whole, happy family again.

That was 8 years ago. Now, Sherlock told him that she was at it again… and Sherlock is never wrong…

He shook his head and scooted all the way to the left as Mycroft settled into the plush, leather seat. His head nearly touched the ceiling. “To my home,” he directed to the driver.

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow but hid it by turning to look out of the darkened window. The lights of London were a dim blur as they bobbed in and out of traffic. Whoever the driver was, he was bloody good. Lestrade was musing on the idea that a man like Mycroft would likely be able to hire the Stig as his personal driver when a polite cough caught his attention. He turned his head to find Mycroft’s bright blue eyes staring at him. His breath hitched slightly and managed a crackly “Hmm?” before coughing himself.

Blinking slowly while shifting his view back to the front, Mycroft clasped his crossed knee with both hands and lifted his chin, exuding an air of professionalism. “How did you come to acquire the acquaintance of my dearest brother?”

Lestrade crossed his own arms over his chest. “Found him once in the streets, causing problems for passer-bys. He was throwing, what seemed at the time, insults at civilians. He was high off his mind, so we brought him in. I was the one who questioned him and, well, you know about his -er- deductions. He guess my exact age, weight, my mother’s age, the number of siblings I had, and how old each of them were. It was bloody brilliant. So… I pulled a few strings and got him released, on the promise that he’s get off the sauce. You see how bloody well that worked out…”

Mycroft nodded. He was internally very thankful for this man. He had had no clue of this ordeal Sherlock had. “When did this happen?”

"A few weeks ago. He had been doing great! Then, tonight, my men and I-"

Mycroft held up a hand to stop the long-winded man. “Yes, you had went along on a raid of a drug house and he happened to be there, I know.”

"How d-"

"Doesn’t matter." Mycroft sighed. "I simply wanted to thank you. For taking care of him." He glanced downward and smiled, closing his eyes.

After a long moment of silence from the Detective Inspector, Mycroft’s eyes flicked back to Lestrade to find the other man’s own eyes staring at him with a peculiar look. Even Mycroft couldn’t get a read on the storm of emotion there.

Lestrade didn’t understand why he was so utterly captured by this man. He seemed uptight and very aristocratic, not at all like the other men he had been attracted to back in his younger years. So, why the hell did he have the urge to dive across the seats of this fancy car into the lap of this man? The urge to take lean in close and kiss him with a passion that he hadn’t given in years, not even to his wife?

Mycroft’s own heart rate went through the roof when the lust and craving crossed Lestrade’s expression, so he was already breathing heavily when the safety belts came off and they collided together in the middle.

Mycroft tugged at Lestrade’s coat collar, pulling it down the DI’s arm. Lestrade jerked his arm free as he felt Mycroft’s tongue tracing his bottom lip. He opened his lips and tilted his head, his nose rubbing against Mycroft’s smooth cheek. The hand he’d freed came up and cupped Mycroft’s face, pulling Mycroft’s mouth even harder against his. Mycroft rested his hands on Lestrade’s waist guiding the other man back to sitting. Mycroft followed with him and straddled him, having to keep his head down so it wouldn’t bump against the ceiling..

Lestrade suddenly took Mycroft’s bottom lip between his teeth, lightly pulled and let go, now targeting the soft skin right below Mycroft’s jawline. Mycroft breathed a breathy groan, enjoying the feeling of the man’s tongue and lips.

Lestrade unbuttoned Mycroft’s suit jacket and waistcoat with nimble fingers, untucking the dress shirt underneath from Mycroft’s trousers. He pressed his hand against the warm skin on Mycroft’s side, running it up and across the man’s chest. Mycroft moaned, Lestrade’s touch lighting his nerves on fire. He had never felt this way about anyone before, man or woman, and he’s tried both. Lestrade know just where to touch him to excite him and make him want more.

While the DI’s skilled fingers played over the pale skin on the younger man’s chest, Mycroft’s mind spin, his thoughts jumbled. He know he was missing something… something quite important, about the man whose lap he adorned.

Then, he froze.

"You are married," Mycroft stated. He leaned away from the man whose kiss had sent waves of fire through him and whose touch supercharged his nerves.

Lestrade leaned with him, trying to keep his mouth within tongues reach from Mycroft’s skin. “Didn’t matter to my wife, why should it matter to me?” The tip of his tongue flicked out and lightly ran up the side of Mycroft’s neck, eliciting a shudder of want from the man in his lap.

But, still, Mycroft hesitated. “Detective Inspector, s-stop.”

Lestrade paused, his lust-filled brown eyes gazing up at Mycroft. He sighed as Mycroft climbed off of him, straightening his tie and buttoning his waistcoat once again.

Lestrade though about how close he would have come to doing exactly what he still hasn’t fully forgiven his wife for doing and was at odds with himself. On one hand, he wanted to stay with his wife, for the sake of his daughters. But, on the other, the passion and the desire for Mycroft Holmes was something that he hadn’t ever felt for his wife.

The car stopped and Mycroft slid out, shutting the door. He motioned for Lestrade to roll the window down and passed a simple white card through the opening. “If you will, keep in touch.” Hs face was held no hint of emotion when Lestrade glanced at him with hopeful eyes. “Keep tabs on Sherlock, make sure he’s alright.”

Lestrade pocketed the card, planning on importing the number on the front of it to his mobile later. “S-sure, not a problem.”

Hearing the disappointment in the man’s tone, Mycroft’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Gregory.” He bent to peer into the open window. “Stay with her. For your children.”

Lestrade nodded, rolling the window up as the car pulled away from the curb.

That wasn’t going to be the last time he would see the eldest Holmes brother.

He’d be sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! :D


End file.
